From Rage to Compassion: A mother and her daughter’s DID

In the backyard, I sit in a chair, unable to hold myself up. I steady the empty laundry basket on my lap, lean back, resting my hands on the plastic rim.  Light comes through and shines on my hands; they are damp, rough and a little red at the knuckles.

“You go along and you are fine and then all of a sudden you are in the hole again- it has to stop,” my mother continues, her sharp, bold voice cuts across from where she is standing; and still pointing at me, she adds: “There are days you act like nothing is wrong and you can handle things and then one day you don’t- you become fearful and soon you are making messes again.”

I open my mouth to ask for clarification but I’m silenced as if buried under debris. I grip the plastic rim of the basket, adjust it on my lap.

Her voice erupts and is tinged with despair and tragedy. “I need to know. Now” Her eyes study my face. She is checking for the look of dissociation. She moves in closer, her hands on her hips.

“Are you going to keep letting the fears control you or are you going to start acting like a normal person?”

It hits me in the stomach. I work hard to keep my focus on her face,  force a smile. I’m stunned but nod vaguely, adjust the basket and straighten up hard.

“What do you mean?” I say, slow and calm. She stares me down.

“Are you going to decide you’ve had enough of the fears or live this way for the rest of your life?” She is yelling now, but her eyes are sad and hard. “…because if you are, just say so- give up, stay here, but I’m old and I don’t know if I can take care of you.”

In my mind, I look away and shrug off the rage and shame rising up. I keep focused on her and say, “what do you mean?”

She scowls, leans foward, raises her voice. For a moment I am afraid, but I force myself to interrupt her.

“I just need clarification. What aren’t you seeing. I do want a better life and I am working toward that…”

“You have hit rock bottom- you’ve gone lower than bottom. Are you going to get better or not? Don’t you want to live a normal life?”

My rage is like gentleness trapped and driven crazy with sticks. It is flailing and helpless. I pull away so deeply into myself I live only in my eyes, my eyes that watch the grass shimmer in the tree’s shade, the white sheets hung on the line, the shadow of her arms as they move through the air. My ears become disconnected so I can’t understand anything; not her shouts, not my thoughts telling me to scream and run. I don’t come back to myself, usually until she is gone, sometimes not for days. This time I reassure myself, tell myself to persist-stay and try to figure this out. I imagine someone is encouraging me, cheering- go girl, they say with a hand on my shoulder.

Push it down, Don’t show my real feelings. Don’t tell.

No, you can take control. Try to say something to calm her down.

“What is it that I’m not doing?” I say soft and gentle.

She lists events; my errors from the past, re-states that they can’t trust me. I want to be knocked out now. The muscles of her face tighten, then quiver, her eyes go sharp and black and her mouth twists as if there is a despicable taste in it. I look away quickly, to the blur of green beyond the patio, for fear that my eyes will give me away. My eyes are now those of a younger child, the desperate child crouched within.

“Hey! Where did you go? Stay here,” she shouts at me without missing a beat. I comply.

In my mind, I yell at her:  STOP it. Stop talking!  With my eyes widened, I re-direct my thoughts to this present moment, re-focus on her face and open my mouth, “What do I need to do?”

She snaps back, “You should know, just think about it. What do you think you want, what is best for you?”

I have no clue! I want to shout at her. I want to slam her, tell her she is a piece of crap, that she is wrong for if I don’t I will dissolve into a shaming bucket of tears. Instead I imagine myself laughing and standing up, over her.

I breathe hard inside, tell myself its okay-I can do this, try to tell her that I am getting better, even list a few areas… I’m eating better, more clear in my thoughts, getting more exercise. Before I am even finished, she is shaking her head, “no, I don’t see anything. No. You say you’ll do something and then you don’t- I don’t trust you.” She shifts onto her other foot; a terrible grimace of disdain on her face, reddened and dazed.

I try to explain that this is due to the Alters but its no use, she is already shaking her head.

“Its not an excuse, I’m just trying to help you understand,” I add.

“I do understand, but I want to see change. Real change -you need to act like a normal person.”

I am about to give a sharp reply, but pause. I look at her face and remember that I have never seen her cry. Frequently, my mother paced the house and listed off the ways she resented her life. When she was even more unhappy, she hurled insults as loud as she could. She rushed from one chore to another, angry, cursing, yelling orders. We kept to ourselves, ignored it. But now I look at her and see her soft eyes, supple skin; she’s sweet and terrified.

Its her own torment and grief smacking me. She can’t tolerate my fragile state as it reminds her of her own inadequacies. This is a surprising, actually empowering realization.

The breeze changes direction. The tree shivers suddenly and sloshes the patio with rippling shadows. I shift the laundry basket off my lap, to my side.

“It will help if I know what you need to see.”

“You should know yourself.”

“Ok, but I want to hear what is important to you.” the snarl on her face thaws.

I know my mother. Our relationship has been all worked out for awhile. And yet, here on her patio drawn by a spark of understanding, I stand up, and peer at her with my head angled. I have never seen her from this perspective. I see what my mother must feel. In the open clear air, I witness her perspective. It is the beginning of a new way to empower myself.